


E-V-A-Y

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Humanstuck, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a terrible taste in most everything. You know this. He can be sort of a problematic person, when he forgets himself, and he forgets himself often when it comes to his media. You can avoid it in the literal sense, it's not that difficult, only as hard as rolling over on your top bunk and putting on your sound canceling headphones. But knowing it's there is enough to make your skin itch, since even when you can't hear or see the things themselves, you can feel him enjoying the vapid ignorance of it all.<br/>But his music, his music is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E-V-A-Y

**Author's Note:**

> Song - evay, Shiny Toy Guns (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXihI1xe6YQ)

_'E-v-a-y'_

He has a terrible taste in most everything. You know this. He can be sort of a problematic person, when he forgets himself, and he forgets himself often when it comes to his media. You can avoid it in the literal sense, it's not that difficult, only as hard as rolling over on your top bunk and putting on your sound canceling headphones. But knowing it's there is enough to make your skin itch, since even when you can't hear or see the things themselves, you can feel him enjoying the vapid ignorance of it all.

But his music, his music is different.

_'So today, your neon cold  
It's turning out to be, something'_

All the insipidness he likes in his television and his games and his bookmarked websites suddenly evaporates, as if he spent all of his taste on the first thing he liked and decided he didn't care about the rest. He listens to almost every genre you can think of, all of it is excellent, but you think you like this the best. The soft, trance-like electronica draws you in with floating soft voices of beautiful women and distorted baselines layered with a keyboard line that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

He took you to one of these concerts, as your sort of gateway drug. You probably wouldn't have gone, in fact you were distinctly planning not to go, but something told you you should, and while you've never been in the habit of listening to instinctual urges, you're glad you did that time. It's because of that urge that he unplugged the headphones as an unspoken invitation to share something with him, and it it because of that urge that you stopped tapping at the keys of your laptop and listened. It is because of that urge that you're here now, sitting on his bed, cross-legged in your too-big sweater and feeling your skin tingle.

_'Telephone lines are streaming silence from your machine,  
Still looking for a broken leak of history.'_

This is a song of longing, you think. It sounds like a love song, in melody and in theory, but it's not, it's a little too smooth and a little too sad. This is the sound of someone who desperately wants, maybe not wants, someone who desperately needs something they cannot grasp.

You don't relate as much as you feel like you should.

_'You’re always gonna be something,_  
Even in your shoes,  
Even in your shoes.' 

He relates, however. You can feel it, even from across the room, you can feel the connection that's beginning at the speakers and ending with him. It feels like you're intruding, forcing yourself to be a part in his emotional exodus, but he's already said it's fine, and you like the music, so you have no real reason to go.

He's sitting in the chair he uses for music, and only for music – it's ergonomic, deep violet purple, and he only listens and creates in it, nothing else. His head is bowed, his eyes are closed, his hands are vaguely cupped and his bottle-born jet-black hair curls unstyled over his ears. He looks peaceful, absorbent, and you feel ignorant for not understanding whatever it is that he understands.

He'll put on his headphones soon, pull out a guitar or a keyboard or nothing at all, and spend a few minutes collecting his thoughts, and then he'll start, playing something simple at first to warm up, then moving into something he's done before, and then making something different, something new. What comes out might be amazing, might be noteworthy, might be average, but he'll put it on his blog no matter how it goes, and a few hundred people will reblog it and enjoy it more than it deserves.  
And he'll know that it's more than he deserves.

Objectively.

_'Wherever you go, I want to go,  
Wherever you go.'_

But for now, you enjoy the floating vocals and the words that sound right individually, but feel like they went together just wrong. It's enough to create a feeling, in a way that is both painfully hipster and kind of perfect. You loosen your grip on your elbows and slowly run the fibers of your sweater over your arms, and let yourself enjoy this part.  
You find it's not as difficult as anticipated.

_'Even in your shoes,  
Even in your shoes.'_

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I haven't written fanfic in a long time. Thank you for reading.  
> Tumblr mirror here - http://emileridan.tumblr.com/post/35170303334/e-v-a-y
> 
> Edit : Wow I spelled the word 'in' wrong. Three rounds of editing and two betas and I didn't catch that.


End file.
